The Singer, the Painting and the Game
by Musical-Phanatic333
Summary: Why does an opera singer have people out to kill her? There's only man that can help, but can she help him as well?
1. Chapter 1

Emma was running hard, her feet pounding on the pavement on the cold, January night. She could feel her heart wanting to burst from her chest, but she had to keep going. Leaping over fences and park benches, she was trying to make herself an elusive target for whoever was after her.

 _I haven't even been in the country for 24 hours,_ she thought bitterly to herself. _Why can't I just be tucked in a corner of some pub with a pint next to a fire?_ She heard a bullet whiz past her head, almost making her stumble but she caught herself and continued on. Dodging every which, she wanted to make herself a hard target to hit. She ducked into the nearest alley way, just to try and catch her breath, if only for a brief moment.

"I think she went this way!" A voice shouted, and it was coming towards her hiding spot.

"Merde," she cursed under breath, as she continued down the alley. The end fed out onto an empty street, nearing the Thames River. Emma looked over her shoulders, and she saw shadows fast approaching, emerging out the alley way. She picked up her speed again, running towards the river. She looked at all of the flats and stores, their lights either dimmed, or completely blacked out. Even if they were up and opened, she couldn't put them in danger. She wouldn't be able to live with that kind of guilt. She could barely protect herself; only armed with a small knife hidden in her pants and a bullet proof vest. The latter would at least protect her vital organs from. She had already acquired some grazes from stray bullets, but she was thankful that they were all bad shots.

Of course as she thought that, she let out a grunt and felt a sharp, burning sensations in her left shoulder. She kept running, her adrenaline keeping her legs pumping. She knew she was at least heading the right way, but she knew that she had to lose the goons before she could ask help from anyone.

She stopped, knowing that she had little options, all of which could have very dire consequences if they did not work out.

One; hide somewhere, wait out until morning, either bleeding out, or freezing. Her second option was not much better, which was jumping into the Thames River. Yes it was January, and she had a bullet lodged into her shoulder but to her, she didn't think there was any other options. Maybe it was the blood loss that was clouding her better judgement. Or maybe it was desperation.

"This way!" Another voice shouted. Emma shrugged her right shoulder, and climbed on the bridge. Luckily it wasn't very high, so she didn't need to worry if the fall was going to shatter her bones or her insides emulsify when she made contact with the water. "I can see her! She's going to jump!" And as soon as whoever said that, Emma leaped from the bridge, into the dark and cold waters below.

The initial cold almost took her breath away, but she kept on swimming under the murky waters. Her shoulder was burning but at least the bleeding had stopped. Emma wasn't sure if it was safe to come up yet but her lungs were burning, and she felt as though she would drown if she didn't go up for air soon.

She shot to the surface, breaking through and breathed as much air as her lungs could take without choking herself. She timidly looked around her surroundings, trying to see if she could see if any of the goons followed her downstream, but her eyes could not see anyone in the darkness. She then pathetically made her way up to the shore line of the river. The water's frigid temperature finally setting in. It hurt to breath for her, and climbing out of the waters proved to be no easy feat, either.

She dragged her aching body, lying with her back on the ground, trying to calm herself, with deep breaths. She winced when she put any amount of weight on her left shoulder. She could feel the bullet lodged in her shoulder, but she'll have it checked soon enough. She got herself up and got back onto the street, hearing Big Ben chime eleven times off in the distance. It was getting late and she needed to make her way to Baker Street. She'd find a doctor there, and among other things.


	2. Chapter 2

"217B, 219B," Emma muttered to herself. She had finally made her way to Baker Street. Her eyes scanned the numbers on the doors, her eyes straining on the poorly lit streets. "Bingo." Her eyes finally landed on 221B on a dark, black door. She bounded up the stairs, clearing the first three steps. She knocked loudly on the door, ignoring the pain in her shoulder and from hit the door too hard with her knuckles. She was on edge, constantly checking over her shoulder. She wondered if those guys were dumb enough to believe she died from diving into the river. Or at least, she hoped they were dumb enough to believe that. She knocked again, even louder this time.

Not thirty seconds later, the door opened to a small, older woman with wispy, graying hair. She had small brown eyes that looked Emma up and down nervously. Emma tried to stop shivering and smiled apologetically.

"Hi," Emma began, "I'm so sorry for bothering you this late, but I'm looking for a Mister-"

"Oh of course, dearie," the woman cooed, "I should have known. Only he would have clients this late." She then beckoned Emma to follow her inside the flat, and up the stairs in front of them. She trudged silently behind the woman, looking at the fading white walls, listening to the creaking stairs underneath her feet. The kind woman opened the door which led into a lovely flat, warmed by a small fire in the living room. Emma relished in the warmth of the fireplace, finally being able to feel her limbs again.

Sitting with his head back towards her, was a man with short and neat sandy blond hair, tapping away on his laptop. The woman walked further into the room and cleared her throat while stood by the door way. The man jumped a bit when he heard the cough and immediately shut the screen of his laptop down.

"Mrs. Hudson," the man said, blushing slightly, "You really shouldn't be startling people like that. Hang on. Who is that?" He asked, indicating towards Emma with a jerk of his head.

"Yes," the woman, Mrs. Hudson said, "I believe this is one of your newest clients. This is, um.."

"Emma," the shivering young woman interjected, "I contacted you a few days ago. I am so sorry for it being so late. I know we said earlier, but I got… Sidetracked." She winced again, the throbbing pain in her shoulder returning. The man's face went from confusion to understanding and then back to confusion noticing Emma's shoulder, slumping slightly, and her shivering.

"Right," he said a little warily, "Let's have you come by the fire and warm you up, shall we?"

"I'll make you all some tea," Mrs. Hudson said, making her way back down the stairs. The man, who was about a half head taller than she was, led Emma to the couch nearest to the still smoldering fire, but made the mistake of patting on her left shoulder. Emma took a sharp inhale of breath, and then tried to smile through the pain. He immediately pulled back his hand as if had just touched a hot frying pan.

"Sorry," Emma said. The man made a perplexed face.

"Why on earth are you the one saying that? I'm the one who hurt you. What happened?" He asked concernedly.

"She was shot, John," a bored voice said from another room, "Isn't that obvious?" The man, John Watson Emma assumed, looked horrified and almost embarrassed.

"No, it's not obvious Sherlock," John replied hotly, "She's not bleeding out and also, she's wearing dark colored clothing."

"You can tell by the way she's slumping her shoulder," A tall, thin man said lazily as he emerged into the living room in nothing but pajama bottoms and an opened robe. John made a face at the man, who Emma could only to be Mister Sherlock Holmes. Emma watch silently at the exchange between the two men.

"If you knew we had a guest," John said exasperatedly, "You could have put on a shirt."

"Be happy I put on pants. And instead of remarking on my appearance, shouldn't you be attending to our new client?" He asked. John turned a bright shade a red, whether from embarrassment or anger, Emma couldn't tell. He got up and left the room, leaving her alone with the tall, slender man with sea green eyes. There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Emma cleared her throat.

"Hi," she finally managed, "My name is-"

"Your name is Emily Rose Roberts, but you much prefer to go by Emma, probably due to the fact there was too many Emilys in your home class in primary school. You went to university for vocal performance, and now are a professional opera singer, primarily working with the Lyric Opera House in Chicago. You have an excellent ear to pick up dialects, but are obviously from the states. Midwest I'm going to guess. You have probably fooled Mrs. Hudson and John for that matter, into thinking you were from here," He said finishing, lazily leaning against the opposite wall of her, his arm crossed over his bare chest. Emma's mouth hung open, astonished by Mister Holmes' deduction skills. He _was_ good.

John reentered the room, med kit in hand and looked at Emma and then at Mister Holmes. "He did the thing, didn't he?" Emma nodded in response, while John rolled his eyes. "Trust me, it gets very old, very quick. No I'm going to have to ask you to take off your shirt." And without batting an eyelash, Emma gingerly peeled off her damp shirt, tossing it towards the fire, revealing her bullet proof vest. John's eyes grew quite large, not expecting to see that. HE shook it off and began examining her shoulder.

"Sorry," Emma started "My wet pants might water stain your couch, which is quite lovely, by the way." John stopped for a moment.

"Will you please stop apologizing," John said, smiling a little bit, "I did mean to ask earlier; why are you and your clothes soaking wet?"

"Well-"

"She took a bit of a late night swim in the Thames River," Mister Holmes interjected, cutting Emma off from Explaining. She pursed her lips in annoyance.

"So," John began, "You're saying that got shot in the shoulder, and then jumped into the Thames River in the middle of winter? Are you insane?"

"I think the word you are looking for is desperate," Mister Holmes said before Emma could speak. She was getting fed up; John was absolutely right.

"You know," she said, not looking at Mister Holmes, "I can speak for myself." She then shot him a look, her dark brown eyes locked with Mister Holmes' green-grey eyes. He tried his best to hide his smirk.

"It seems as though you do," He replied, not willing to break the eye contact between the two of them. John backed off of her shoulder, looked at the two of them and sighed heavily, shaking his head.

"If we're quite done with this pissing contest," he grunted, "I still need to stich the girl up. Sherlock, go make yourself useful and order us some food. Looks like we'll be up for a while, and I know I'm famished." And as if right on cue, Emma's stomach growled low and loud. It had been about two days since she last had a decent meal. "I think that Miss Emma is agreement with me." Mister Holmes just sighed and rolled his eyes, muttering something about this was dull. He walked out of the room as Mrs. Hudson strolled into the room, with a tray full of tea and even some cakes.

"Here you go," She said, placing the tray on a side table near the couch, "I also brought a bit of whiskey if you wanted to maybe make hot toddies. It looks like you might need it." She put a tender hand on Emma's other shoulder and smiled. _This woman is a saint,_ Emma thought to herself.

"Thank you all so much," Emma said as John finished the last stitch, "You all have been far too kind to me. Also, I think I have some cash for the food." She began to dig through her soggy pants for any cash. Luckily all of her plastics were kept safe in a lining of her bra, but just not her cash. John stopped her.

"Don't worry about that," John said smiling, "For now, concentrate on healing and whatever lies ahead. I am curious why an opera singer has people wanting her dead." Emma smiled sheepishly, lifting the cup of tea to her lips, with just a dash of whiskey and honey. She felt the warmth all throughout her body, goose-pimples raising on her bare skin. John immediately flushed, clearing his throat. Emma looked down, nearly forgetting that she was just in her pants and bra.

"Would you like to freshen up while we wait for the food? A nice hot shower should warm you up." Emma smiled genuinely, tears beginning to sting her eyes. She laughed nervously, trying to wipe them away before they fell.

"So terribly sorry," She said, "I've just been through a lot, I suppose, and a shower sounds absolutely divine. Again, you really have been far too kind to me, Dr. Watson." She got off of the couch, wiping her eyes again, flushing fiercely from embarrassment. She dropped her. John took her chin in his fingers and looked into her eyes.

"Please call me John," he smiled, his pale green eyes warm, "And stop with all this sorry nonsense. You are allowed to feel overwhelmed. You are human. You haven't put anyone off, I promise. Now, how about we get you in a nice, warm shower?" Emma nodded, following behind him. "If anything, I should apologize for the fact that we only have men toiletries, and for Sherlock's behavior. He can be… Overwhelming." He finished, struggling to find the right words, while Emma giggled.

"It's okay. I only think that he's a bit of an arse. I've dealt with worth before, trust me," She said as John opened the door of the bathroom. "And I could care less if I smelled like a man. All I care about is the shower." She went in and closed the door behind her, John smiling all the while.

Emma took a deep breath, with her back against the door. She really needed this shower; she needed to cleanse her body and mind. She began to strip, laughing to herself as she took off her bullet proof vest. _This is getting ridiculous,_ she thought to herself as she turned the dial on the shower all the way to right to get the water scalding. She was now just beginning to feel all of her limbs again.

For whatever reason, Emma felt just a tiny pang of anger and annoyance; Mister Holmes didn't show any concern for well-being. Not once did he ask if she was okay or not. He wrote her off completely, but then shook her head, and thought why should even care? It's not like he owed her anything at all. They just met tonight, and she could already tell that he was not good with human interactions. Emma took a haggard breath; she was letting silly things bother her, when she had much worse problems at hand. For example, like who was trying to kill her. She had a few ideas, but still it confused her.

Just when she was just about to step into the shower, there was a knock on the door. Emma sighed, and grabbed the nearest towel. She opened the door, expecting to see either Mrs. Hudson's greying hair, or John's neat and sandy blond hair. Instead she was greeted with a bare chested man; Mister Holmes almost stood a full head taller than herself. She was so surprised that she almost dropped her towel.

"Oh, my," Emma said, fixing her towel, "I wasn't expecting it to be you."

"Here," Mister Holmes said, practically shoving a pile of clothes at Emma. She clumsily took them, still trying to keep her towel on her.

"Oh well," She stammered out, "Thank you very much, Mister Holmes."

"John thought you'd might need a change of clothes since yours are still wet, so don't thank me." With that, he left and rather quickly. Emma could only guess why; he didn't her to see the rouge in his high cheek bones. _Glad to see he's human,_ she laughed to herself as she stepped in the steaming shower.


	3. Chapter 3

Emma must have spent eternity in the shower, but it felt so wonderful to feel all of her body warm again. And she didn't mind smelling like a masculine, pine forest. It was probably John's; she remembered smelling something similar to it when he was working her shoulder. It was still very sore and tender to the touch, but it could have been so much worse. She was lucky that John Watson was a medical doctor.

She walked into the living room, following the scent of something spicy in the air. Was that Kung Pao? How did Mister Holmes know that was her favorite? Never mind; he probably deduced it by the way she walked or something absurd like that. Emma didn't really care. She was just happy to have something warm in her stomach. She could still feel the low rumbles of hunger.

She walked back into the living room, John fixing some plates full of food. He looked up and smiled at her. "Hope you like it spicy," He said handing her one of the plates. Emma did love it spicy, so she happily take the plate from John. She sat down on the ottoman crossed legged, inhaling the aroma of the spices in the Chinese dinner on her lap. She began to inhale her food, almost making noises of ecstasy because it tasted to so exquisite to her.

John quietly ate his food across from her on the couch, while Mister Holmes sat across from her, no food in his lap but he stared intently at her, just watching her eat the take-away food. Normally, that would bother Emma, but at this point, all that mattered to her was the food in front of her. She wasn't about to let the man ruin her appetite. John looked up from his food and rolled his eyes.

"Will you cut that out, Sherlock," he said, pointing his chop sticks at Mister Homes, "Can't you just let the poor girl eat in peace?"

"Pointing your chopsticks is considered bad luck in most Asian cultures," replied Mister Holmes, not breaking his gaze on the young woman, "And besides, we need to get started." The two men bickered back and forth, while Emma helped herself to a second serving, then almost shoveling the food into her mouth. She then let out a rather large belch that immediately quieted the two gentlemen, who sat in an almost awed silence. Emma finished her plate and set town on the small coffee table in front of her.

"Pardon me," she said with a smile, "I guess I ate my dinner too quickly, but Mister Holmes is right. Time is of the essence, even if it is almost one o'clock in the morning." The doctor sighed; John had a pension for doing that Emma noted to herself.

"I suppose you're right," John conceded, "After all, this is your life we are talking about." Emma smiled weakly. She tried not to think about the worst scenario; she rather fancied being alive. "Now Emma, when did this all began?"

Emma swallowed hard. "About two weeks ago, I was walking back to my car after a rehearsal for 'La Bohme', when I was attacked. The man tried to choke me with a leather chord but luckily," Emma said pausing slightly, her eyes darting left, "I had pepper spray on my purse and was able to escape with my life." John's eyes squinted at her, while Mister Holmes had an amused grin on face. "And then someone tried to jump me outside my apartment but again, I was lucky enough to have help."

"Pepper spray again?" Mister Holmes asked, his eyebrows raised high.

"No," Emma replied defensively, "A neighbor helped me. Scared him off. After that incident, I decided that I needed to leave town for a while and that's when I contacted you Doctor-" She stopped herself, "John. And then I made my away overseas. I thought I would be safe here."

"Obviously not," Mister Holmes quipped, "And obviously, you didn't think so either, otherwise you wouldn't have worn a bullet proof vest."

"Yes, but-"

"And why there was a small knife bundled in your pants," Mister Holmes said, brandishing the weapon. Emma's face went red while John stood up.

"Did you go through her belongings, but more importantly her pants?" He asked Mister Holmes, incredulously, but the detective just shrugged.

"Her fault for leaving them in the WC," he said coolly, "Now, as I was saying, Emma is no idiot, and she knows how to take care of herself. I did some investigation of my own prior to your visit and for the first incident there was pepper spray, but also the man had a broken arm and fractured rib."

"Curious after that, I looked into the second incident and looks like the other unfortunate fellow also landed in the hospital, and this time with a concussion," he finished, and the room fell silent. Both men looked at Emma for an answer or for anything really. She was getting fed up with Mister Holmes. _What a passive-aggressive ass,_ she thought to herself, although she had to admit that he was good at his job. She sighed.

"Alright," She began, "I may put the guys in hospitals but I still need your help."

"Why?" John asked, and Emma gave him a dry look.

"Well, I might be able to put a few goons in the ER, but it doesn't mean I want to. It does get tiring after a while," She retorted, "I would like not to look constantly over my shoulder, personally."

"So why not just go to the police?" John asked her, but Mister Holmes tsked him.

"A normal person would be able to do that," he began, "but our client, Miss Roberts, is not a normal person, is she?" Mister Holmes looked pointedly at Emma, whose hands were gripping the over sized white t-shirt. She huffed, trying to calm herself down.

"I was going to save that part for later," Emma said tersely, "But I guess since the cats out of the bag, I'll explain. Yes, I'm an opera singer, but I do have a" she struggled trying to find the right word, "hobby we'll call it, on the side."

"I'm what you call a cat burglar, but I consider myself more of a Robin Hood, if I do say so myself. You know, steal from the rich, and give to the poor?" That earned her a quizzical look from them. "Anyway, I was in the middle of a heist at a particularly notorious family in Chicago, the Kosevos, who had recently acquired a beautiful vase that I knew they had stolen from some other mobster family."

"I easily got the vase, but as I was leaving, I saw a bit of a disturbance around the back of their mansion. Curiosity got the best of me, so I went to go see what the commotion was about. Turns out they were trying to get a woman to go with them against her will and naturally I could not let that stand. I hid the vase, and went down to break up the fight and the girl got away and called the police while I dealt with the assholes. All of them were arrested, including the son of the leader of said mob. Unfortunately, they got a pretty good look at my face during the scuffle."

"And now you think they're going after you because you landed the mobster's son in jail?" John asked.

"I've stolen a lot of art pieces in my day, but I haven't sent that many people to jail, much less gangsters," she replied, "It only makes sense in my mind."

"If you don't mind me asking," John ventured carefully, "Since you don't keep the art work, what do you do with them?" Emma smiled warmly.

"I either give them to museums or I sell them and donate the money to local music programs in the city," she said. She looked down for a minute, still smiling. Then her head shot back up. "Now, I've asked you for your help because I'd like to send Roman Kosevos, the head honcho, to jail. Without me going to jail in the process."

"But you are breaking the law," Mister Holmes said, "Theft is theft."

"True," she replied, "But I thought you might look past that to put one of the most notorious men in jail?"

"How?" John asked, confused.

"By catching them while they're stealing their next art target," Mist Holmes said, a shit eating grin spreading across his face. "Oh, this could be fun. I've been so bored lately, and this is the most exciting thing to cross our paths in weeks!" Emma beamed as well.

"You mean it? Oh thank you!" She exclaimed, hugging Mister Holmes, who blushed profusely and went rigid. She release immediately. "Oh, I'm sorry. I got carries away. I just can't thank you enough." She go up and stretched, and yawned like a cat. She winced in pain, almost forgetting her left shoulder when she was stretching. She began to look about the flat.

"What are you looking for?" John asked her.

"My clothing," Emma replied absently, "I should be off. You guys need your sleep and I need to find a hotel or somewhere that will take me in tonight. Once I get my clothes back, I'll be on my way. We can meet up sometime tomorrow and-"

"No, no, no, no," John interjected, "You're recovering from a gunshot wound, it is almost 3 o'clock in the morning and there might be people still after you. You can stay here for now, young lady." He crossed his arms, metaphorically putting his foot down. Emma looked ready to argue.

"John is right," Mister Holmes said before she could speak, "We are going to need a cat burglar's help to catch another burglar. We can't have you dying on us. You will stay here." And with that, he left the room, leaving a very perplexed John and Emma. She shook her head, laughing a bit.

"It would be rude of me to refuse," Emma said, too tired to argue, "So I'll just thank you for your kindness, again." John smiled in return.

"It's really no trouble at all. Here, let me go get some linens from the closet for you. I can attest that he couch is really quite comfy." He left the room, leaving Emma alone in the living room. She meandered around the place, looking at the dark green wall, her eyes darting to the black and white decorated wall, with a yellow smiley face painted on. She looked closer. Were those bullet holes? She decided that she didn't need to know about that. She walked towards one of the few book shelves, lined with pages and pages of information, making her way to the fire place, with a bleach white skull sitting on the mantle. Not knowing why, she found the thing amusing. Very gingerly, she picked it up with her hands, examining it. "Here," John said, his voice carrying from another part of the flat, startling Emma a bit. She deftly put the skull back exactly how she found it and made her way back the couch before he noticed. "I know it doesn't look like much but I promise you this quilt has kept me warm on many a nights. I sometimes swear like a pig when I use it." Emma couldn't help but giggle, and looked embarrassed. "I mean, I have washed it since then." Emma just continued to laugh.

"I'm sorry," Emma said through giggles, "I don't mean to laugh. Thank you so much again, John." She kissed him lightly on the cheek. His face instantly went red, following a silence between them. "Well, we should go to bed," Emma finally said. John cleared his throat, agreeing and bidding her a good night.

"You're right," he croaked finally, "I'll, uh, see you in the morning." And on a turn of his heel, he left the room again. Emma couldn't help but laugh again as she made herself comfortable on the couch. If she was ever thankful for being short and petite, this was for times like this where she could stretch out on the couch and still have room to spare. She laid the blankets and quilts over herself, and Emma did find herself surprisingly warm. She slept easily that night. A first in what felt like eternity.


	4. Chapter 4

Emma woke up to a beeping sound, and groaned; she was never really a morning person. She rolled over, falling off the small couch. She landed with a hard _thud_ on the ground, and let out a hissing sound because of course, she would land her bummed shoulder. She muttered profanities under her breath, and stayed lying ground, still tangled up in the blankets. She heard footsteps coming towards her from the kitchen. Emma prayed that they belonged to John.

"You've got to be the least graceful cat burglar I have ever met." Emma groaned again, her arm placed over her eyes, trying to avoid eye contact with Mister Holmes.

"Good morning to you as well," she grunted out, propping herself on her right elbow, looking up at the tall, willowy man. He held a porcelain white mug, that she prayed was coffee.

"Here," he said, offering her a hand up much to Emma's surprise. She awkwardly she made it on her feet, accidentally knocking herself into his chest. "You really are clumsy." Emma immediately pulled back, putting at least a foot between herself and him.

"Cut me some slack," she said not looking at him, picking up and folding the blankets, "I'm just waking up and I haven't had any coffee yet."

"I figured as much," he replied coolly, "Which is why I made you some." Emma stopped what she was doing and looked at Mister Holmes, already dressed in a maroon button up shirt, and dark, navy blue sports jacket with matching slacks. Emma should have been mortified by her state; only wearing along white t-shirt, with some black socks, and her short, shaggy blond hair probably a horrid mess, but Emma didn't care since there was coffee being offered to her. She happily inhaled the aroma, already feeling the caffeine in her veins. Taking a small sip, careful to not burn her lips or tongue, making an "mmm" sound. She took another sip, making her way back into the kitchen.

"How did you know I liked it black?" She asked, "Wait, don't tell me; you deduced it by the way I snored, wasn't it?" She laughed at her own joke, catching a fleeting smile across the detective's face.

"Not quite," he said, "I took a lucky guess, and I suppose I guessed correctly."

"Nothing new there," said a still very tired John, rubbing his eyes, "What was that loud thud I just heard?" He asked making his way towards the cupboards, picking out a similar mug to Emma's. She smiled sheepishly.

"That was me," she said, still smiling. John looked at her perplexedly as he began to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"You fell off the couch?" He asked concerned, "Are you alright?"

"She's fine, John," Mister Holmes said, "She only fell about a foot and a half. You don't need to baby her."

"Well, with a recovering wound in her shoulder, I don't want her stitches coming undone," John shot back, "I'm not babying her. I at least act concern for her well-being."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mister Holmes replied back, in feigned aghast, "So I'm the terrible person because I'm not asking her every five minutes if she is okay or not. She is an adult, John." Emma couldn't contain it any longer; she burst out laughing, almost spilling her coffee. She couldn't stop laughing at the two of them, who had stopped their argument to look at her, both of their eyes squinting. She finally slowed down, catching her breath.

"So, how long have you two been together?" She asked earnestly, "You guys argue like how my grandparents did when they were alive." Mister Holmes' eye brow shot up, while John pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. He then threw his hands up in the air exasperatedly.

"Seriously!" He groaned, "Why does everyone think that Sherlock and I are a couple? Never mind, don't answer that," he said as Emma was about to say something, immediately shutting her mouth, instead giggling. He let out a ragged breath. "No. We are _not_ a couple. I, personally, am straight."

"Could have fooled me," Emma said under her breath, taking another sip of her coffee. John glared at her, but she just shrugged it off.

"Maybe that's why you can't keep a girlfriend, John," Mister Holmes mused.

"I have you to blame for that," John said tersely, "With you always scare them off." Mister Holmes just rolled his eyes, while Emma cleared her throat, making the two men stop arguing. Again.

"Now, if we are quite finished here," she began, "We should start planning."

"Planning what?" John asked, "We don't know what or when they're going to strike, if they even do."

"Not true," Emma said, placing the morning newspaper on the island counter. It read that new art pieces were being donated to the National Gallery in London. They all belonged to a very old and prestigious family, and were discovered in the basement of their summer home in the northern part of England. It was speculated that the family hid the pieces when Nazis threatened to bomb and invade England in WWII. "The remaining family members that are alive, technically own them still but they said that they don't really have a use for them, and much rather donate them to National Gallery. Said that the museum would benefit from them more."

"And it looks like they are going to be throwing a gala," Mister Holmes mused, typing furiously on his phone. He showed John and the Emma. She scanned the tiny screen and sure enough, the National Gallery was throwing a huge gala event as a thank you to the family in question on January 24th. Invitation only.

"Do we even know if the Kosevos will even rob this place blind?" John inquired, "And on a night where there will be security guards and people everywhere?"

"I would," Emma said. John made a face. "What? I would! A lot of commotion with guests, museum personnel, security, and not to mention catering service. Anyone clever enough could slip in and out."

"And with the right strings," Mister Holmes said, following her thought process, "They could even bribe security guards. It would be so simple." He began tapping away at his phone, pacing the room. He stared intently at his phone's screen, off in his own world it seemed to Emma. She looked over at John, who was sipping on his coffee still.

"Does he do that a lot?" She asked, indicating Mister Holmes' behavior.

"All the time," John said putting more cream in his cup, "It's especially bad when he goes off into this mind palace."

"Ahh," was all Emma said. She had read about how some people use this trick to remember just about anything; almost like a photographic memory but instead of just the exact detail, a person uses their memory palace to categorize any and all information they wish. And then just pull them out, essentially like an archive. Emma found this process fascinating but was never able to create one for herself. She was lucky enough to have a photographic memory. Emma could look at a layout of any building, memorize it and find the best and most efficient way out. It always came in handy.

"We're on the list," Mister Holmes said absently, "Black tie affair. I think you can handle that, Miss Roberts?" Emma stood opposite of him, her arms crossed over chest, giving Mister Holmes a dry stare.

"What?" She asked, "Am I supposed to be impressed or something? I could have done the same thing too. You just beat me to it. You're not the only one with connections around here." John looked up, his mouth slightly open, and then snickered to himself a bit while Mister Holmes stood there befuddled, not quite sure how to respond. Emma walked past him, rinsed her cup in the sink and left it on the small rack to dry.

"Do either of you know where my clothes went off to?" She asked, turning to both of them, "I'm going to need them so I can go out and at least pick up some more clothing for myself. Also, I need to call in a favor for a decent black tie affair dress. I'd ask if you like help finding something Mister Holmes, but I'm sure you can handle that, hmm?" Emma stared at Mister Holmes, raised eyebrows and smirking. Mister Holmes' mouth almost twitched into a smile, but then he cleared his throat.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked, still amused.

"Fine," he replied, as he walked brusquely out of the room, returning with what looked like Emma's clothing. He almost thrust them at her, never breaking eye contact with her. "Here you go. Now go change. John and I will accompany you while you shop and then we will go the National Gallery to scope everything out. Rather, you will. I know that you have a photographic memory, so that'll be useful."

"Sure, but I don't need you two to come with me while I shop for myself," Emma said, "And do you really need my set of eyes?"

"I don't understand why you keep forgetting you have people that want you, and most likely dead for that matter," John said, "There's no way we're letting you go alone."

"You are a valuable asset," Mister Holmes added, "An extra set of cat burglar eyes could not hurt." Emma was annoyed with the detective's comment. Didn't he value here as a human being? No, she wasn't going to let it get to her; to Emma, they were _her_ asset. Once they were done with all of this nonsense, she would be heading back home to Chicago, and forgetting this whole thing ever happen. Emma let out a sigh, looking at the clothes in her arms.

"Fine," she said, slightly defeated, "Let me change, alright? It'll only take a minute." She exited the kitchen and skulked to the bathroom. She hated the fact they were basically going to be her body guards for however long this was going to take, but what other choices did she have?


	5. Chapter 5

It was a wonderfully crisp, January Wednesday morning. The sun greeted them as they all stepped out of the flat on 221B Baker Street. Emma might still be on the run from some people who wanted her head on a silver platter, but that didn't mean she couldn't enjoy a new city for what it was worth. She did consider herself a sort of tourist, despite the circumstances. She smiled a little bit, her mind wandering as John hailed a cabbie.

They all climbed in, John in front, with Mister Holmes and herself in the back. . She looked out of the window as the two of them started talking, but it went in one ear and out the other. She was too busy enjoying what her American eyes saw; the old architecture of the buildings, cobblestone roads, juxtaposed next to modern offices and swanky apartments.. The St Mary Axe was awe inspiring to her, its glass windows seemed to dance with each other as the spiraled upwards to the sky. They passed through the financial district, finally stopping in Burlington Arcade on Picadilly. The shopping center was a lot ritzier than Emma was used to, not that she couldn't afford it; she just preferred comfort and mobility over glamour and gaudy.

They paid the driver and walked into the mazes of high end retail stores: Chanel, Harrys of London, House of Cashmere, and the least intimidating to Emma, Barrie. She knew she could find sweaters and pants, focusing on the black tie outfit for later when she would call her friend. hey had another two weeks until that was happening, anyway.

"Wow," John said his eyes wide, "This place is absolutely massive. And expensive." He eyes widened even more as he saw a price tag. Emma shrugged and continued to browse around, picking out comfortable sweaters, slacks and jeans, socks and even some hat and gloves. She was making her way to the women's changing room, when she stopped in her tracks, turning around to the two gentleman behind her.

"What do you think you two are doing?" She asked them, "This is the _women's_ changing room. You can't come in here."

"Nonsense," Mister Holmes said, "We won't be inside the stall with you. We will be outside of it."

"As nice as that is of you two," Emma said dryly, "If there are any women in there, they won't appreciate it. They would find it pretty uncomfortable. And besides, let's not draw attention to ourselves, shall we? Why don't you go look around or something. I will only be a few minutes. Meet back here in fifteen minutes?"

"Boring," was Mister Holmes response, while John nodded in agreement.

"Fine, fifteen minutes," he said, "But not a minute more." And with that, they left Emma alone. She sighed in relief. It was nice to have them around, but she appreciated the few moments alone. She walked into the fitting room area and she was the only one in there, and that made her even happier. She chose a stall near the end of the hall. She closed the stall behind her, and started to get changed. She finished taking off her shirt when there was a knock on the door.

"Hold on for a second, please," She answered impatiently. The knock became more persistent. Emma huffed, throwing a sweater over chest, at least covering herself a little bit. "Alright, what the hell-" She gasped. She was expecting a store attendant or even Mister Holmes, but it was a different man. Shorter than Mister Holmes, with dark, slicked back hair. His eyes were just as dark, almost black and he was dressed in an impeccably nice suit, wearing a smile that did not quite reach to his eyes.

"Are you a Miss Emma Roberts?" He asked, his voice proper and light. Emma's heart began to race, but she stood her ground. She squinted her eyes at him.

"Who the hell is asking?" she said, trying to sound tough. She felt something was off about this guy, something that made her feel very uneasy about him. He smiled even bigger, and chuckled slightly.

"Oh pardon me. Where are my manners?" He cleared his throat, and bowed slightly, "The name is Jim," His voice was too sweet for Emma's liking, "And now that you know my name, can you tell me yours?" She swallowed hard, still trying not to let him see her fear.

"You know what, I'm not comfortable with this to be quite honest, Jim," Emma stated, "So if you don't mind, could you please kindly get the fuck out of here. I am not decent." The man, Jim, chuckled darkly. His dark eyes scanned her, making her skin crawl.

"Well," he said silkily, "I think you are more than decent." He reached out to touch her face and that's when Emma sprung like feral cat. She caught his wrist, twisting it harshly around his back, then shoving his face against the wall of the stall. Instead of crying out in pain, he only laughed. "Oh, so you like it rough, too?" He grunted out, his face pressed against the wall. He struggled for a minute, but Emma kept him steady against the hard surface.

"What do you want from me?" She spat out, twist his wrist harder behind his back, but only let out another giggle. It was almost unnerving to Emma.

"So you _are_ Emma!" He exclaimed happily, "Good!" All of the sudden, Emma looked up and saw a little red dot of light on the wall above them, and then watched as it traveled down the wall, landing on her left shoulder. Jim tsked her.

"Silly girl," he said, "You have no idea who you are dealing with, do you?" Emma slowly released him, putting her hands in the air, taking a step back and looked around to see if she could track where the beam of light was coming from, now landing her bare chest. Jim brushed himself off, and took a step towards her. She refused to let this man intimidate her, so she glared at him, standing her ground.

"So pretty," he said sadly, "Too bad I have to let them know you're still alive." Dread hit her stomach. Hard. He snapped his fingers and the red dot disappeared and Emma instantly reached down to grab something to cover herself, at least. She tried to regain her composure, trying to keep her breath steady. She knew better than to ask but she needed to know the answer.

"Tell _who_ I'm alive?" She ventured, and Jim laughed again.

"Come on girl," he said chillingly, "You're smarter than that. You know who exactly I am talking about." She remained perfectly still as he leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. She tried to make no reactions, but as soon his lips were touching her flushed skin, Mister Holmes and John walked in.

"It's been fifteen-" Mister Holmes stopped dead in his tracks, as did John, his eyes wide with surprise. Emma scarcely breathed, the dot now landing on Mister Holmes and one more on John.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Emma said, "How many do you have in here?"

"Don't under estimate him, Emma" John said, his arms up in the arm, "Moriarty is unpredictable and more dangerous beyond reason."" Jim, or rather, Moriaty, stepped away from Emma towards the two gentlemen, his face contorted into a devilish grin.

"How dare you interrupt Miss Roberts and I's little chit-chat," he said, disdain dripping in his voice, "How rude of you. Haven't you missed me in the slightest bit, boys?" Mister Holmes looked at him annoyed.

"Hmm, can't say that we've had. After the first time, this is just dull. Now, what do you want with the girl?" Mister Holmes perhaps said that more passionately than he intended to, but Moriarty caught him. He smiled a sickening grin, looking at Emma who still trying to cover herself with the sweater she picked up off the ground. She hadn't dared to try to put the thing on, afraid of any big movement would trigger the snipers hiding. Her eyes caught Mister Holmes' and then Moriarty's, his smile wide and eyes still dead like a sharks.

"There might be a change in plans," He said, snapping his fingers one last time, making all of the red dots disappear. "I see that Sherlock still likes to keep pets." He hummed to himself as he began to text on his phone, "Ciao everyone. I'll be seeing you all soon, don't worry. Ooo, this just more fun." He walked back to Emma, leaning up to her ear, "And Emma, it was lovely meeting you today. And I personally cannot wait to see you again. That red brazier looks absolutely amazing." He said it loud enough for the two other gentleman to hear. He winked at at them as he left the fitting room area.

Emma started to bolt to the door when both John and Mister Holmes Caught her by her shoulders, trying to hold her back. She hissed in pain, muttering again profanities under her breath; Mister Holmes grabbed her bummed shoulder. "Why aren't you going after him?!" She said through gritted teeth, fighting them.

"Because personally," John said, struggling a bit, "I like living. Now is not the time to act too rash." She stopped struggling and slumped to the ground, her head hanging. She started sniffling, and tears started to fall. Not waterfalls, just a few stray tears streaking her cheeks. They were from exhaustion and fear settling in.

"Are you okay?" Mister Holmes asked, taking her face in his hands. His tenderness shocked Emma, "He didn't hurt you, did he?" She shook her head no, her eyes still down. She didn't want to look at the detective. Surely he would think less of her, but he made her look him in the eyes, and she wasn't quite prepared for what she saw; she saw concern swirling in his green-grey eyes.

"Good," He finally breathed, "John, will you take a look at her shoulder? I think I might have been too rough." John immediately bent down to tend to her, "What did he do to you? What did he say?"

"He's working with the Kosevos," She managed, "He-Moriarty- said that he needed to let them know that I was still alive. Who is he? Why is he helping them?" She had so many more questions that needed answers. All that she knew was that this Moriarty person was dangerous. It didn't take a genius like Mister Holmes to figure that out.


	6. Chapter 6

Once outside, Emma took a deep, cleansing breath, relishing the chilled air again. Emma stretched, deciding that she could and should relax for a bit. If she didn't step foot inside of a mall or department store for a while, she'd be happy. She felt claustrophobic and on edge, even while walking out the place.

The three of them all had agreed that they would wait until the following day until they would go to the museum, but for now, Emma needed a drink. She also had questions for the two gentlemen about this Moriarty guy. Luckily, John knew of a great pub nearby where they could talk over food and beer, much to Mister Holmes' chagrin. They all piled into the cab, John up front again, leaving Mister Holmes and Emma in the back.

She stared out the window for the drive, leaning her head on the window, the sun soaking her with its rays. She could feel the warmth on her cheeks and she smiled, her eyes slowly starting to close until she caught Mister Holmes staring at her intently. There was an odd electricity in the air that she could feel. She couldn't help but chuckle to herself. She lazily turned to her head to look at him, who quickly averted his gaze, looking out the window.

"What are you staring at?" Emma finally ventured. Mister Holmes did a bit of a double take as if she woke him from a deep thought.

"Oh," he said, stumbling over himself, "I was just looking at the St. Mary Axe. It's very, um, impressive in the sunlight." Emma just gave him a look, smiling, not believing him but deciding not to further embarrass him. She went back to looking out the window, thankful for the peaceful moment. She wanted this to be done and over with this whole episode of her life, to go back home, snuggle up on her couch, watching the snow falling on her familiar streets. She sighed, and apparently louder than she thought; Mister Holmes' head turned to her. "Are you quite alright?" There was concern was in his eyes again, but Emma shook her head yes, smiling softly.

"I'm fine," she assured him, "I was just thinking about home, that's all. I haven't been out of the country for some time. Don't get me wrong, I love travelling but I would prefer if it were on my own terms."

"Well, Miss Roberts," he replied, "Maybe you will get a chance to explore it on your own." Emma forced a laugh.

"Right," she said, "Doubt that will happen. Not unless I go incognito or something." Emma laughed at the absurdity of the idea while Mister Holmes just smiled, looking out the window again. But who knows, maybe she would have the chance to be a tourist in her stay in London.

They pulled up to the pub, Emma getting out first, not waiting on the two slowpokes behind her still getting out of the cab. She pushed through the door and smiled broadly. It was everything she wanted at that moment. Emma could smell the hearty meals in the air, and hear a fiddler playing in the back corner, and she could almost taste the strong, English ales. She strutted up to the hostess, a cute young thing, probably only 21 or 22. "Welcome to the Waterpoet. How many?" She squeaked, her eyes immediately going from Emma to behind her. Emma turned around, seeing John and Mister Holmes walking. Emma cleared her throat.

"There will be three of us," Emma replied, trying to get the girl's attention to no avail. Mister Holmes, on the other hand, walked up to the podium and held up three fingers, to which the wide eyed girl nodded and proceeded to lead them to a table, passed the bar to an open room with the fiddler sitting the corner. They were sat next to the windows at a tall table, placing the menus down, her eyes linger lingering on the detective.

"Your server will be with you in just a tick," she said, only really looking at Sherlock. It was John's turn to clear his throat.

"Thank you," he said. The young woman gave John a once over, frowned, and stalked away, sadly unable to grab the attention of Mister Holmes, who was busy studying the menu, making funny faces.

"This violin player is dreadful," he remarked. Emma shrugged.

"I dunno," Emma said, "I kind of like it. It makes me want to dance, but I'm much too sober for that." Just as she finished, a young Irishman waltzed up to their table. "Whatever you boys want," Emma said before their server could say a word, "I want to thank you two for your kindness so no arguing okay?" She looked at John pointedly, who threw his arms up in defeat smiling all the while. "Good. A round of your finest ales, please." The young man winked at her and waltzed away.

The fiddle player began playing a somber sounding song, the long notes hanging in the air in the dimly lit room, as the young server came back with the ales. Emma thanked him, and smiled broadly at her. "Iffin' ya need anything else, just ask. The name is Sean by the by," he said, his Irish brogue thick. Mister Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Married," he said, catching the young man off guard, who then squinted his at Mister Holmes. He then sulked off to another table. Emma gave him a weird look.

"How in the hell do you know that?" She asked him.

"The indent on his left finger where his wedding band should be," He replied, "It's obvious. Most servers, especially male servers, tend to try to appear single to make better tips." Emma just rolled her eyes.

"Who cares if he's married?" She asked, "Never mind. Forget about it. Now, before we get down to the nitty gritty business, I would like to thank you two for everything you have done for me, and quite possibly, what you will be doing for me. I will do anything in my power to repay you back but for now, let's eat, drink and be merry! Salud!" Emma raised her glass, and took a long gulp of her drink, while John took a sip and Mister Holmes sniffed at his. "Not a beer drinker?" Emma remarked.

"I don't eat or drink on cases," he replied. Emma shook her head.

"Oh come on, Mister Holmes," Emma said smiling, "Relax! Enjoy yourself for once." She took another drink of her beer, enjoying the crispness and slightly bitter finish. She definitely needed this, but she knew it was time to ask at least some of her questions about that man from earlier. She shudder just thinking about him.

Emma ordered another round for herself and John, while Mister Homes was at least sipping cautiously at his. "Now gentlemen," She started, "Who was that man from the mall today? And how do you know him?"

"His name is Jim Moriarty," John replied, "He calls himself a consulting criminal." Emma wasn't sure if she completely understood what John meant by that. She tried putting the pieces together.

"So people go to him if they want to commit a crime?" She asked, beginning to understand more. John nodded.

"To put it simply, yes," He said, finishing the second beer, "Just like how the police will come to Sherlock when they can't figure something out about a case, and they need his advice and eyes."

"Which is more often than not," Mister Holmes chirped in. John just shot him a look, rolling his eyes now.

"Anyway," John said annoyed, "When bad guys need help be even more bad, they go to Moriarty." Emma nodded, now understanding fully. It made sense that the Kosevos were working with him. But what she couldn't figure out was how they knew she went to London after the first two attempts at her life.

"Okay," She said slowly, "Then how do you two know him?" She looked back at John, and then at Mister Holmes who actually finished his pint of ale. He didn't look like he was uncomfortable but Emma could tell that talking about Moriarty wasn't his favorite subject. His eyes were on his empty glass, not really focusing on anything.

"He's got a thing for Sherlock," John said, trying to make light of the matter, but Mister Holmes head shot, and he cut a look to John. Obviously he did not find it amusing. He flagged down the waiter again, order another pint for himself. She sort of felt bad for the detective. It had to be hard to be him, even if he was a bit of an asshole. He really did have moments where he wasn't completely void of emotions, and he could see other's as well. It must be exhausting to keep the bravado up like he did.

The server came back with the pint and set it down by Mister Holmes, who immediately took another sip. Emma smiled at him. "Thought you didn't drink or eat on cases?" She teased him. He tossed her a look, something glinting in his cool eyes. The fiddle player began to play a fast, lively tune now. People started to get up to dance, twirling their partners around the hall.

"I'm making an exception. After all, you are thanking us for our services," He replied with a sly smile, while John, who was on his third beer, rolled his eyes a bit sluggishly.

"Oh come on now, Sherlock," John said, slurring a bit, "We all know you find Emma-"

"Excuse me," a young man said, interrupting John, blushing a little bit. He had chestnut brown hair, green eyes and smile that could put any male model to shame. "I don't mean to interrupt anything but I was wondering if this lovely young woman would like to dance?" Emma wasn't sure what to say; she hadn't been asked to dance since her senior year prom. She shrugged.

"Sure, why not?" She said a bit apprehensively. The young man took her by the hand and led her into a fast paced dance among everyone else in the room. She twirled around with the handsome stranger as the fiddler kept playing fast song after fast song. She found herself dancing with other strangers, both men and woman alike. Emma laughed, and then John came up and started dancing with her, although a bit sloppily but they were having a ball. She laughed and smiled, and felt incredibly light on her feet, until she was dancing with a tall, blonde man with piercing blue eyes. The grip around her hand a bit tighter than need to be. Emma tried to switch to a different partner but he would not let go. She rolled her eyes, and before you could count to three, the tall man was easily flipped to the floor mid dance. Everyone in the room stopped dead, looking at her and the now the man lying on the ground, groaning loudly.

"Sorry," Emma said calmly, "I didn't like where he put his hands on me." Everyone laughed and jeered at the man on the ground, and cheered at Emma, who made her way quickly back to the table to a slightly drunk John Watson and perceptive Mister Sherlock Holmes. She flagged down their server, asking to get the check. Mister Holmes didn't even have to ask her what was wrong; he knew right away that the pale half unconscious man on the ground was working for the Kosevos, or even Moriarty. She paid, and quickly and quietly made their way out the back of the restaurant, making sure no one was following them.


	7. Chapter 7

Although it was fairly early in the evening, the winter sky was dark. It was only 7:30 when Emma and Mister Holmes were carrying a slightly drunk John Watson between the two of them, making sure he didn't fall flat on his face. Emma was still a bit shook up after that encounter with the man at the pub, but she wasn't about to let Mister Holmes see that. She needed to prove to him, maybe more to herself, that she was a valuable asset, and not some damsel-in-distress twit. She tried to grab a cabbie but to no avail. The streets were void of the little black cars. _How did John manage to get all of those cabbies earlier?_ She thought to herself, slightly annoyed, but she couldn't help but giggle at John's state. From what little amount of time she has spent with him, John seemed as though he was the more responsible one out of the two of them. He was almost the maternal figure, at least comparatively to Mister Holmes. Now, John was mumbling about something unintelligible, smiling all the while. The relatively two sober ones walked in silence for a while, keeping an eye out for their surroundings.

"Did you recognize the man?" Mister Holmes asked Emma after a block or two of walking. She shook her no.

"I could just feel something wrong about him," she replied, "When he took my hand to dance, his grip was too tight and he wouldn't pass me off to other dancers. I think he meant to try and run off with me." She tried to pass it off as a joke, but got no rise from the detective. He looked beyond the top of the doctor's head.

"He was working for the Kosevos," He simply stated. Emma just sighed.

"Maybe? But maybe he wasn't," She offered, struggling to keep John upright, "Maybe he was just a handsy pervert, trying to cop a feel. Or he was just selfish." Mister Holmes shook his head, probably rolling his eyes at her.

"Why can't you take anything serious?" He asked her pointedly. Emma huffed, annoyed by the comment, "Why do you insist to make a joke out of everything?"

"Maybe it's because I don't feel the need to be serious all the time," She retorted, not bothering to look at him, "I shouldn't have to." She heard him sigh heavily, almost feeling his eyes roll.

"It's a defense mechanism," He shot back as if he knew the right answer, "Serious subjects make you uncomfortable, that's obvious enough. It's the same for most people, nothing special there. I believe-"

"I believe that more often than not, people ask you stop you where you are and to not pry anymore. That in reality, it's none of your business how they deal with their problems." She replied, almost completely devoid of any emotions, "Was that serious enough for you, Mister Holmes?" He said nothing, and that was enough of a response for Emma.

The three of them continued to walk home in silence after that exchange, but Emma's eye caught Mister Holmes more than once wanting to say something, but then stopping himself. She kind of hope that what she said, he took to heart, but it most likely fell on deaf ears. _Maybe that was a bit harsh though_ , she thought to herself. He's probably heard it all before; she couldn't possibly be the first one to be irritated by his complete lack of social decency. It was confusing to her, who was an empath of the up most degree, how people like Mister Holmes, sociopaths, went day to day, not understanding anyone's feelings, much less their own. _It must get lonely,_ she thought.

"How's your shoulder?" He finally managed to say. Emma was caught off guard; she had been preoccupied with her own thoughts. "I know in the store I was a bit rough."

"No," she said sighing, "It was my fault. I was the one who wanted to run off after a psychopath, after all." She paused, trying to swallow her pride. "I never really properly thanked you. I'm not sure what would have happened if you two didn't come. So, um, thank you for coming to my rescue. But I promise you that I'm not some nitwit. But you already know I can actually take care of myself." She found herself rambling now, a bad habit she acquired whenever she felt nervous in situations. Then, for the first time to Emma's knowledge, Mister Holmes let out a true laugh. There was a certain melodious ring to it and Emma enjoyed the sound, but she was still confused. "Why are you laughing at me?" He kept chuckling, John joining him. Mister Holmes stopped walking, forcing Emma to stop as well since John was the anchor between them.

"I'm not sure why," He thoughtfully said, "Maybe it's the beers, or something, but I just find you absolutely fascinating. You are absolutely spastic and yet you are sometimes incredibly insightful. Talking to you sometimes is very refreshing, albeit a bit dizzying." Emma didn't know what to do with that information. Mister Holmes probably meant nothing by it; he was just being observant as per usual.

"I tend to have that effect on people," she said, trying to brush the feeling of butterflies in her stomach away. Suddenly, she heard feet pounding the pavement coming towards them. Something in her gut told her that they needed to either keep going or find somewhere to hide. "Mister Holmes," Emma asked suddenly, "How far away are we from the flat?" Mister Holmes was picking up what she was saying.

"About mile still. Where the hell are the bloody cabbies around here?" He said, looking around, finding a bush nearby, "Follow me." They shuffled along quickly, trying to hide in the bushes. Getting John hidden with Mister Holmes' long figure in the bush proved to be no easy feat Emma found, but somehow they managed; she was lucky to be small. Emma's ears burned, trying to hear and see how many feet were just running towards them. They weren't too far off, and from what she heard, they were maybe 3 sets of feet. She steadied her breathing, hoping that whoever they were didn't see the three of them dive into the bushes.

The feet slowed down, nearing the bush where they were hiding. She could vaguely make out the shadows through the leaves. "Damnit," one of them said with a thick eastern European accent, "The blonde bitch is gone. And the two idiots with her."

"She couldn't just up and disappear. Are you sure you saw her and the two men go this way, mate?" Another voiced asked, this time with a British accent, northern dialect if Emma's ears weren't mistaken, "We can't tell the boss we let her get away again. He'll wring our necks."

"She won't get away that easily, not after what she did to me in the pub," the first man said, a sneer in his voice. Emma smiled smugly. _Serves the asshole right,_ she thought to herself. "And when I get my hands on her-"

"You know he wants her alive," a third mysterious voice said. It sounded very light and proper. The eastern European man scoffed.

"Who? Kosevos, or Mori-"

"Do not say his name," the second voice said, cutting him off, "You don't know who might be listening, you igit." Emma's heart was beating faster and faster now. Just thinking about Moriarty ran chills all over skin. He was a terrifying man. _But,_ Emma chided herself, _He is **just** a man._ She could not let him have that sort of control over her.

It was at that moment, John looked absolutely sick, probably from all of the jostling between walking him and shoving the poor bastard in the bushes. Emma looked at Mister Holmes, who then looked at John, slightly swaying back and forth. _Oh shit, oh shit,_ Emma kept saying to herself, _Keep it together, John!_ He lurched forward, making the bush shake a bit. The shadows of the three men all turned sharply towards the bush they were crouched in. Emma knew she could take them, especially if Mister Holmes could help, but with John in his state, it was too dangerous to try in fear of leaving him alone and defenseless. They both held their breath, waiting for whatever happened next.

"Did you hear something?" The second man said. Emma held her breath.

"It's just the wind," The third man said. Emma relaxed just a bit while the man with the thick Eastern European accent laughed.

"Or maybe it is Moriarty coming to get you," He mocked laughing cruelly, "Now come on, we need to find that bitch." And with that, they started off running again, with both Emma and Mister Holmes finally being able to breath normally again, and John finally vomiting in front of himself. Emma groaned, as she made her way out of the bush, basically dragging John behind her.

"Come on John," She cooed to him, "Let's get you home." He groaned a bit as he hung on to her while Mister Holmes made his way out of the bush, brushing the twigs and leaves off of his long pea-coat. He ruffled his curly mess of brown hair, and Emma couldn't help but notice how the moon light made him even more handsome and mysterious, and she couldn't help but stare at him. Mister Holmes finally caught her staring.

"What?" He asked, "Do I still have twigs on me?" She stopped staring, shaking her head no.

"No," She fibbed poorly, "I thought I saw something, but it was nothing. Don't worry. Now, let's get him back to your guys' place." Mister Holmes nodded, taking the other side of John and they made their way, making sure to keep an eye out for anything or anyone else.

"Alright," Emma grunted, practically dumping John into his bed, "Off you go. Sweet dreams now." John mumbled something, his face buried in the pillow. Emma shook her head, and turned him over so at least he wouldn't suffocate while he slept off the rest of his drunken stupor. She walked lightly out of the room and shut the door behind her quietly as he could as she sneaked out, letting out a deep exhale of relief. She was happy to be back inside since it was absolutely frigid outside. To her surprise, Mister Holmes had started a fire, stoking it with the metal spiked prod. The glow of the fire accentuated his high cheeks bones, and there was a gloss to his dark, curly hair. If he didn't infuriate Emma so much, she might consider him attractive.

He must have heard her come back into the living room for as soon as she got near the couch, he shot up and turned to her. The two of them stared at each other for a couple of silent beats, and then Mister Holmes cleared his throat.

"I knew you were cold from being outside," He said, gesturing to the fire behind him, "I could practically feel it through John." Emma shrugged, settling herself down on the couch near the warmth of the fire. She always cold, though. "Probably due to poor circulation," He remarked. Emma just shrugged again. He eyed her warily. "Why are you quiet? You're never quiet." She laughed softly.

"I'm tired," She simply said, "Today took a lot out of me. It's not every day you have a psychopathic criminal master mind harass you in a department store dressing room. And oh, let's not forget the group of people who want my head on a silver platter. That's fun, too." She gathered her knees to her chest, staring at the fire. Mister Holmes tentatively walked to the couch, sitting on the other side, leaving a gap between the two of them. He turned towards her, not saying anything but Emma could feel that he was trying to comfort her in own strange way. He began to close the gap a little more, placing his hand on her knee.

"There's the wit," He said a little awkwardly with a slight smile, and much to Emma's surprise, she found herself smiling too. She began to relax a little more, releasing her death grip around her knees, while he got a little closer to her. She felt the butterflies in her stomach again, her cheeks going flushed. Her brown eyes looked into Mister Holmes' grey-green eyes, who looked just as nervous as her while he leaned in closer. She didn't know why or how, but she was leaning in too. Her face just mere inches away from Mister Holmes'. She breathed him in; musky and urban. She smiled, her eyes warm.

Just as his lips brushed against hers, there was the sound clumsy footsteps coming down the hall. Both Emma and Mister Holmes jumped away to the opposite sides of the couch, both also blushing profusely, while John stumbled out into the living room. He gave the two of them a funny look.

"What did I just step into?" He asked sleepily. Emma and Mister Holmes looked at each other and then at John. I don't think anyone in the room had a clue what just happened, not even Mister Holmes.

"Nothing," Mister Holmes replied curtly, getting up, "You are just tired and need to go back to bed." He got up, leading John back into his room, without so much saying a word to Emma. She turned back to the fire, her knees back to her chest, confused and slightly hurt. She didn't know what to think, so all she did was give the middle towards Mister Holmes' door. She was too tired to do anything more.

She lied her head on the couch's pillows, and began to drift off into a restless sleep, trying to forget whatever almost happened. Again, she tried to blame the couple beers and the exhaustion, and ignoring the butterflies inside her stomach.


	8. Chapter 8

Emma tossed and turned all night on the couch in 221B Baker Street. For the life of her, she could not find a comfortable spot on that damned thing. She tried every position but to no avail. For a good deal of time, she just lied on her side, looking at the smoldering ashes in the fire place. And when she could eventually close her eyes to get some rest, Moriarty's leering face would pop into her head, startling her awake, breathing heavily.

And if she wasn't thinking about that, she would think about whatever it was that her and Mister Holmes were about to do when John stumbled in that night. The way Mister Holmes went from what looked like _almost_ caring to complete indifference, if not disdain, when John walked in, confused Emma. The whole situation was jarring to her.

She shook her head, rolling on her back, staring at the cracked, pale creamed colored ceiling. She took a pillow and groaned into it, trying to push the thought from her head. She knew better than to over think anything of it. Emma had only been around him for a couple of days. She was just tired, and probably lonely. Granted, she didn't really have too many friends back at home in the states, but it's different to be lonely in a country where you know you don't belong, or feel like you're not welcomed.

She squinted her eyes shut, avoiding the sun that seeped through the large windows in the living room, also avoiding the realization that it was morning and that she may have gotten 2 hours of sleep over all. She grumbled to herself while she swung her legs over the side so she could sit up and stretch. Emma looked down at herself, seeing that she had _tried_ to fall asleep in her clothes from the previous day, realizing that she needed to shower. _Maybe that would clear my head for a little bit,_ she thought to herself, _Or at least wake me up._

Getting off of the couch, she grabbed some new clothes out of the shopping bags and meandered to the washroom. She found it closed much to her displeasure. She put her head on the door, making a slight thud sound. Not really thinking at all, leaving her head there. Before she could react, the door swung open and Emma fell crashing forward on to something, or rather, someone.

Her face landed on a bare chest, finding herself tangled up with whoever limbs they belonged to. She groaned, picking up her head only to be staring at Mister Holmes, his eyes squinted shut still. He let out a slight groan as well, placing his hand on the back of head. She then realized the towel around his waist was gone and top of her now. She shrieked and tried to jump off of the very naked man, only to fall onto her back in the tub. She let out another guttural noise, along with a string of profanities as her back landed with a _thud!_ on the hard porcelain bath tub floor.

"Are you okay?" She heard his voice strained, still not up himself. Her only response was sticking her arm up giving him the thumbs up. Her legs were over the side of the tub, dangling, over him she presumed. He pushed her legs out of the way, finally making his way up off the ground. He snatched the towel and put it around himself. Emma stayed where she was, staring up at the ceiling of the bathroom. After a few moments of that, she finally saw Mister Holmes' head poke over the tub. He raised an eyebrow. "Are you coming out?"

"I dunno," she said dryly, "I think I found my new place to sleep. It's _fantastically_ comfortable. You should try it sometime." Mister Holmes shook his head, then offered Emma his hand to help her out. She batted it away. "I've got this." She grabbed the side of the white tub, trying to pull herself up. While albeit clumsily, she managed to get out, Mister Holmes staring at her all the while.

"You are so incredibly stubborn," He remarked.

"Clever deduction, Mister Holmes," She retorted sarcastically, smoothing herself out. He cocked his head to side slightly.

"You're angry with me," He stated, no emotion in his voice. Emma let out a forced laugh.

"You really _are_ a perceptive one," she replied sardonically, "Sorry for disturbing your shower. I'll leave you to it." She made her way when Mister Holmes stuck out his arm out across the door frame, blocking her only exit. She turn to face him, crossing her arms over her chest, huffing slightly. He made no notion to move it anytime soon, so she tried pushing past him but he kept his arm in the same place, hardly budging.

 _He's a stronger than he looks,_ she thought to herself, almost amused. She pursed her lips in irritation, her eyes hard and eyebrow high. "Are you going to move that?" She asked, gesturing to his arm barricade. His tall figure loomed over her, but she wouldn't let him intimidate her; he was just an oversized, spoiled child to her. She could deal with that easily. Again, he didn't move. "Alright then. Pretty please will you move your arm?" She asked, her voice dripping with fake saccharine.

"Not until I ask this question," He stated, "Why do you insist on calling me 'Mister Holmes', when you call John by his first name?" Emma looked puzzled.

 _He's not going to ask why I'm perturbed,_ she thought wearily to herself. She should have known better than to think that. "Does it bother you that much, Mister Holmes? " She asked instead.

"You're avoiding the question," he replied.

"And you're annoying me. Now move, please," She said, trying to push past him again but this time, he caught her arm and didn't let go. "You're being such a child, Mister Holmes. It's far too early in the morning to be playing games like this."

"Then answer my question," He answered coolly, not breaking the eye contact. _He loved doing that_ , she noted to herself. It was a power game for him, the eye contact thing that he did. She looked down at his hand on her arm and then back to him again, and smiled haughtily.

"You know I can flip a man twice your size, but I'd really rather not," She said challenging him, "It's a bit cramped in here." He leaned in closer to her, only a few inches away from her face.

"I'd like to see you try, _Miss_ _Roberts_ ," He said, again something glinting in his eyes, while she rolled her eyes. She wasn't about to take the bait.

"If you must know," She said "It's because John asked me to call him 'John' and not "Dr. Watson'. Simple as that." Mister Holmes' expression went from playful to confusion in no amount of time. "You have never corrected me, hence why you're still, 'Mister Holmes', Mister Holmes."

"Now you're just doing it to bother me," He shot back. Emma couldn't help but laugh. The brilliant detective. The man who figured out the serial killer cabbie driver, the man who figured out that the Chinese mafia used "London A-Z: A Tourist Guide" book to communicate with one another across _continents_ , among so many other cases that baffled the London police, the _Sherlock Holmes,_ could not even figure out why she insisted on calling him "Mister Holmes" as opposed to just "Sherlock". It was comical to Emma, almost too much so.

"Maybe I am," she said, truly enjoying this, "And maybe I'm doing it to prove a point."

"What point?" He asked incredulously, almost not being able to fathom that he missed something. Emma couldn't contain her smugness; she just stumped the one man everyone thought to be un-stumpable.

"That you're not as observant as you think you are," she replied nonchalantly. She finally shook her arm free, sliding underneath his arm like a limbo bar. Mister Holmes' mouth was left agape, probably still not fully grasping what she had said. He closed it and then thoughtfully looked at her leave the bathroom, his head following her down the darkened hallway.

"Emma," He called quietly after her. She stopped mid stride, turning her head around to look at him. He almost looked like a shy child, the slightest genuine smile displayed across his lips. She gave him a look that seemed to say, "Go on".

"Um, you can have the shower," He said hastily, "And please, call me Sherlock." Emma finally smiled without sarcasm. She knew this wasn't an apology for what happened last night, but she knew she had to let that go. She was never going to get an answer from him on that, but this small victory would do for now.

"Thank you, Sherlock," Emma said, turning back to him. She walked back to the bathroom as he walked out to his bedroom. She couldn't help but notice how good he looked from behind. She smirked to herself as she shut the door behind her.


End file.
